


i see in blue (you see everything in red)

by principessa



Series: all you have is an axe to grind [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Chasind Hawke, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Nobility, Pre-Game(s), Red Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/principessa/pseuds/principessa
Summary: 'She wonders if this will be the first and last time they ever meet, if she will spend the rest of her life thinking back to the mysterious Ferelden mercenary she met once at a party. Perhaps she is over-exaggerating the importance that Hawke will have in her life, and he will fade from her memory completely, just another drop in the pool of water that is the life of a noble young lady.'The Honorable Lady Leandra Amell meets an interesting mercenary at a party, and though she doesn't know it quite yet, her life changes.





	i see in blue (you see everything in red)

**Author's Note:**

> ok heads-up that leandra is kind of... shitty in her internal monologue re: malcolm in the sense of she's like: _oh, he's foreign, he's rough and tumble, he's so fascinating etc,_ with the implication in the story though that they're going to start talking and she'll unlearn that attitude as she gets to know him, which she definitely wants to do.
> 
> i'm fairly sure that it fits her character well enough, especially with how gamlen etc talks about malcolm it seems to fit how the nobility would have thought? i dunno, let me know if i'm entirely out of line lmao.

At the risk of sounding terribly rude, well – Leandra has never seen anyone quite like him before. It’s somewhat thrilling to not be the only dark-skinned person at one of the Viscount’s parties, she must say; she wonders which part of Rivain he comes from, if he comes from Rivain at all. The Amells have been based in the Marches for generations, waving about their banner saying, _oh, look, we can trace our lineage back to Asha Campana_ when needed, with a few choice marriage matches here and there keeping their hair and complexion far from fair. All things considered, it’s a much nicer inheritance to have than magic curling through their veins, Leandra thinks, even if Wanda Selbrech continues to make snide comments about Leandra’s wide eyebrows and nose and curly hair. The joke is on her, frankly, considering that she fancied Gamlen for all of five minutes when they were thirteen, and his hair curls fiercer than hers does when it isn’t shorn close to his scalp.

Wanda and Carine du Puits are still giggling and whispering behind their hands, looking over at the brave hero who supposedly saved the life of the viscount, and it’s incredibly boring, Leandra thinks – she’d much rather act, and so she does, gathers her skirts in one hand and waltzes over to where the man leans against a pillar, half in shadow. He looks uncomfortable.

“It’s untraditional for mercenaries to be invited to such events,” she says, nodding her head with the proper show of respect, “You must have truly impressed the viscount. Leandra Amell.” She offers her hand, for him to bow over and kiss. He looks at it like it frankly bit him, before his eyes move to her face, and he slowly raises an eyebrow.

“Hawke,” he replies, brusquely, and seems to be waiting to see what she’ll do faced with rejection. Had it been anyone else, she might have graced his face with a slap, honestly, but his is so very lovely, with a wide hooked nose and dark eyes and odd tattoos framing his eyes and face. His voice sounds Ferelden.

“You’re very rude, Serah Hawke,” she remarks, moving her hand to put it on her waist. “Shall I be rude back, then?”

“Do your best, Leandra Amell,” he challenges, with a look in his eye that suggests very much that no matter her best, he won’t be impressed.

“Are those tattoos elven?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That is very rude,” he says. “They’re Chasind. But what does a Kirkwall noble know of foreign cultures?”

“Not much yet,” Leandra replies amiably. “But you could teach me, perhaps.”

Hawke cocks his head back, looks around the room slowly. “Here?” That, too, Leandra reckons, is a challenge. They are in plain sight, after all, regardless of how small he tried to make himself before the honourable lady Amell walked to his side, ensuring that at least a few eyes would be on them constantly, and even a little after they part ways.

“You could meet me on the balcony,” Leandra counters, smiling with little grace, feeling like she’s marked a point in this – this battle of wills, stubborn personality versus stubborn personality. She doesn’t know anything about this mercenary besides that he is Chasind, which is a name she has only ever seen mentioned in stories where the heroine needs a chaotic savage to rail against until her love comes to save her from sacrifice or worse; and that he is Ferelden, which might as well be less than dirt right now, particularly since he doesn’t seem to have taken anything from the Orlesian fashion, despite the occupation, not that being Ferelden was particularly positive beforehand; and that he wears his hair long and twisted into thick braids or twists that spill onto his shoulders despite the tie trying to hold them back in a style she’s never seen before; and that he is terribly, desperately, interesting, in a way that is shaking the very foundation of the life she thought she’d have.

She wonders if this will be the first and last time they ever meet, if she will spend the rest of her life thinking back to the mysterious Ferelden mercenary she met once at a party. Perhaps she is over-exaggerating the importance that Hawke will have in her life, and he will fade from her memory completely, just another drop in the pool of water that is the life of a noble young lady.

There is a part of her that is desperately curious about a third option, one where they meet again and again, and exchange witty repartee once more, and he tells her about Ferelden, and what it means to be Chasind, and his adventures as a mercenary, which is rather more exciting than being a soldier, she would think, and perhaps he has been to Rivain and Antiva and Nevarra and all those places she’s only read about in books. Perhaps he could bring her there and show her himself.

She leans in, conspiratory: “You see, Serah Hawke,” she says, “I have a younger brother, and what use are they if not distracting overbearing parents when you’d rather be doing something much more exciting?”

Hawke blinks slowly, looks at her as if he’s going over her words once, twice, a third time. He rolls his lip between his teeth for a moment before he finally speaks. “Am I something exciting?” Hawke asks, looking rather pleased with himself at the innuendo. At least, Leandra assumes. It could be he’s just awkward. She’d believe either option equally. It’s endearing.

“Perhaps,” she replies, with all the coquettishness she can muster; Mother would be proud. “Or perhaps we’ll just talk history. Shall we find out?”

“I think I’d rather discuss history,” Hawke warns.

“Then I shall tell Gamlen that he needs to distract Father for quite a while,” Leandra chimes, grinning. “Will you wait for me on the balcony, Serah Hawke?”

“Just Hawke,” he says, and kicks off the pillar he’s been leaning on this entire time, stalking through the crowd like a man on a mission, not even saying goodbye or nodding to her as he goes. He is a terribly rude man.

Leandra hopes he goes to the balcony. In the meantime, she goes to find her little brother and impress a favour upon him. This is the most exciting function she’s ever been to, she thinks, and there’s still hope it might be more exciting yet.

**Author's Note:**

> nobody cares about your leandra/chasind!malcolm fics caroline get over yourself and start posting game fic -- everyone, probably


End file.
